Don't Fear the Z
by Random Equinox
Summary: A spin-off to Chris Dee's Don't Fear the Joker, from the perspective of everyone's favorite band of lair-builders.
1. He Asked Me the Strangest Thing

**Don't Fear the Z**

**Chapter 1: He Asked Me the Strangest Thing**

Scarecrow had lost his mojo.

Well, that's what the puerile lowbrow idiots would say. It would be more accurate to say "Recent observations have brought the efficacy of the Scarecrow as the personification of Fear (Null Hypothesis) into question. Specifically, commentary amongst a small sample group of civilians suggest that the entity known as the Joker may present a greater personification of Fear (Alternate Hypothesis #1) or could provide insights that can make the Scarecrow more effective in championing the cause of Fear (Alternate Hypothesis #2). Exploration of this situation is clearly worthy of further investigation." _**  
**_

That sounded better. At the very least, that description would make a decent start to an abstract. Though Jonathan had to admit, the crude simplification that the peons and test subjects were more likely to use did have a certain elegance to it.

Regardless of how one chose to phrase it, Scarecrow needed to study the Joker. That would require a base of operations. A sanctum where one could set up a lab, devise experiments, make observations, analyze the results and formulate new experiments.

And that would require the services of a certain group of talented individuals.

* * *

*RING*

_*RING*_

Zoiks looked up from his laptop. "Is anyone gonna answer that?"_  
_  
_*RING*_

Time to try again. "If it's a potential client, whoever picks up doesn't have to go to the meeting."

Zed immediately jumped up and launched himself at the phone. He belly-flopped on the table, sliding along it towards the phone, and scooped it up. Unfortunately, he still had enough momentum to continue sliding off the table, through the air, and into the wall.

He crumpled to a heap, out of sight of the other Zs. His voice cheerfully rang out from the floor. "Zach's Diner! How may we help you?"

Zound and Zowie exchanged a sympathetic glance. Zed rarely went out to meetings, get-togethers, or any encounter with a client. Mostly because he had the worst possible luck. The last time he went out, he got ambushed by Robin and Batgirl. He got away, mind you, only to get ambushed by the client. Catwoman. Who thought that HE'D fucked up and led the capes straight to her. The only reason he didn't get clawed is because he blabbed the details on the last client.

The time before that was when the Zs picked up the payment for the hidey-hole the Zs built for Scarecrow. It was their first encounter with Scarecrow's "henchmen insurance"—some special fear toxin blend that kicked in when the adrenaline spiked. Naturally that happened when Batman tracked them down. He burst through the window, they all jumped... and then they all freaked out. Batman was nice enough to administer some kind of cure after he slapped the handcuffs on, though. Neutralized the fear toxin in a jiffy. Except for Zed. Some unique quirk of his metabolism prevented the cure from working somehow. As a result, he spent a full two days caught up in the throes of a fear attack.

And the first time? Zed went to meet a client. Which turned out to be the Joker. 'Nuff said.

Needless to say, Zed had developed a certain aversion to the public side of the Zs unique occupation. No wonder he answered the phone so cheerfully, despite the self-inflicted injury.

"You want to order the Blue Plate special, you said?"

Everyone perked their ears at that code, only used for hidden business. Or real business, from the Zs perspective. Certainly Zach's Diner wasn't a completely legit establishment. They didn't advertise. They had no actual building from which they could serve any customers who were actually looking for edibles. And the few times that some civilian actually managed to get a hold of them with the intent of ordering something, they just went around the corner to McDonald's to buy something, prettied it up a little, then dumped it in the lap of the unsuspecting sap.

After charging an arm and a leg. That was part of the Zs shtick, the other part coming from passing off something from the Land of the Golden Arch as an original creation.

Anyways, the real clientele knew that hanging around the Iceberg Lounge hoping one of the Zs would show up was too hit or miss. They used to rely on texting to get around, but that had been shelved after Batman intercepted one of their texts and sent his junior Bats after the client, Catwoman. After she took out her grievances on Zed, the Zs had devised this new fake business as a means for clients to contact them, complete with hidden code phrases.

"Will that be delivery or pick-up?"

If it was the former, they'd be meeting at some place or other, to be determined by the potential client. In the latter case...

"All right then. It'll be ready in an hour. Thanks!"

With that, Zed stumbled to his feet. "That was Crane. Blue Plate special to be picked up in an hour."

Zoiks nodded in approval. That meant a meeting at the Iceberg at 6pm. Early enough to avoid the majority of Rogues who might interrupt an otherwise pleasant business meeting with their usual spontaneous violence—not that they would risk raising the ire of the people who might be building their next hideout, but you never know—but not so early that the representative couldn't grab a quick bite to eat first.

"Who's going to the meet?" Zooks asked.

"It's your turn," Zoiks replied, turning his attention back to his laptop.

"Already?"

"Yeah. Besides, weren't you going to meet those thieves? The ones who were stripping off phone wires for copper or whatever?"

"Right, forgot to tell you," Zooks snapped his fingers. "Guys got busted by the cops."

"Just as well," Zound shrugged. "The wires they provided were hit-and-miss when it came to quality."

"Fine," Zoiks said. "It's still your turn to go to the meet."

"Okay, okay."

* * *

Zooks had a rating system for pubs and other dining establishments. Up to 10 points for their selection of beer; up to 10 points for service; and up to 10 points for the hotness of the staff. Despite the pompous airs of that prick, Cobblepot, the Iceberg Lounge rated a 30. And the 10 points for service were all thanks to Sly.

Case in point: it took Zooks a minute to enter the Iceberg and make a bee-line for Sly. Maybe fifty seconds. Sly had a pint of Guinness ready for him in half that time.

"Thanks," Zooks grinned, slipping him a $20 bill. "Give yourself a big tip from me and pass the rest of the change back."

"Will do," Sly said. "Not running a tab?"

Zooks shook his head. "Just here on business tonight. Scarecrow here yet?"

"Dr. Crane's been nursing his drink for the past half hour," Sly confirmed. "Ordered an Absolut Fear, then went over to the east corner."

Nodding his thanks, Zooks grabbed his Guinness and went to the east corner. Sure enough, Scarecrow was sitting at the corner table.

"I need a lair," Scarecrow started without preamble. "Themed, of course. But not the usual theme."

Straight to business. Fair enough. "What kind of theme are we talking about?"

"Joker."

"Huh?"

"Joker."

"What? I thought your thing was—?"

"For the third time, Joker. Surely you heard me. Unless you're going deaf."

"Hearing's just fine. And I heard you the first time," Zooks said. He took a sip before continuing: "You gotta admit, though, that ain't your usual thing."

"No it isn't," Scarecrow conceded. "But that's the job. It has to be an authentic Joker lair. A 'Ha-Hacienda,' as he would call it. With all the minutiae and nuances that would make him feel at home, whatever that might be. As if he were here placing the order instead of me."

"See, that ain't right either," Zooks interrupted. "Joker doesn't meet us face-to-face. Not after the first time. Harley handles that stuff now."

Scarecrow actually paused for a moment. Like he was taking Zook's words seriously or something. "Very well. Pretend I am Harlequin, hiring you and your crew to build a lair for Joker."

Zooks decided not to tell him that normally this situation involved covert admiration of Harley's assets. If Scarecrow knew how scary the thought of seeing him with boobs was, he might just gas Zooks on the spot.

* * *

The meeting was pretty much over by that point. Scarecrow wanted an "authentic Joker lair". That was it. Nothing more, nothing less. Never mind that he had no idea what that meant. "Fill it with whatever is considered thecomforts of home to a homicidal clown," was the best he could offer. Oh well. That's what the Z was for.

Not that Zooks went back immediately. He still had his Guinness to finish. And waitresses to ogle. And he was still trying to figure out why the hell Scarecrow wanted a Joker lair.

But he did make it back eventually. And he was relieved to know he wasn't the only one who was confused as heck.

"Crane wants what?" Zed frowned.

"That makes no sense at all!" Zowie exclaimed.

"That's what I said," Zooks complained. "But he wants a Joker lair, filled with all the crap Joker might like. Even wanted me to pretend he was Harlequin asking for a Ha-Hacienda." The very thought made him shudder. Zoiks, Zed and Zound echoed his horror. Zowie just rolled her eyes.

"Well at least we have a few ideas to work from," Zound said. "Zoiks, we still have the blueprints and details on that last Joker lair?"

Zoiks was already typing away at his laptop, though he still had time to give him a look. "We have details on every lair we've ever built. You know that." He glanced at the files before opening a custom program he wrote, one that tracked the commonalities between multiple lairs. "For an agent of chaos, he is remarkably consistent on what he wants. We should be able to build something he likes."

"That'll depend on where the lair is and what the layout's like," Zound pointed out. "Maybe we could re-use one of the old blueprints. Less work for us, not that Crane will know. We'll still charge him the same rate."

Nodding his agreement, Zoiks printed out a bunch of pages and distributed to the others. "Zound, Zooks; here are a list of potential lairs. Scout them out, make your choice. Zed; you're going shopping for all the supplies Joker likes to have on hand. Take your time: we don't need Batman tracking us down. Zowie: before you start building the furniture and whatnot, get some seamstresses on standby. Scout out the usual locations to make what we need."

Zoiks clapped his hands together and rubbed them in excitement. "Let's get to work, people."


	2. Masks On

**Don't Fear the Z**

**Chapter 2: Masks On**

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Zed darted from the bush that had provided such wonderful shelter, just in the nick of time. A second later, that bush was inundated by a hail of fire.

He ran forward, aiming for the nearest piece of cover—a particularly magnificent specimen of oak.

"Oof."

Unfortunately, his foot caught a not-so-magnificent root that had the indecency to stick out of the ground. There was a brief rush of air around him just before he got a self-inflicted mouthful of earth.

Spitting out dirt, pebbles and who knows what else, Zed scrambled to his feet. Looking around, he saw his gun lying on the ground. He bent down, scooped it up and started to run again.

"Zed! Over here!"

Without bothering to look, Zed immediately altered his course. It was only after he started building up some steam that he started to pay attention to his surroundings.

The other Zs had holed up in a small two-story shack. Zoiks and Zowie were on the rooftop, using their vantage point to spot any enemies a mile away and direct Zound and Zooks accordingly.

By the time Zed registered what he was seeing, he was almost at the shack's door. Subconsciously, he started to slow down so he didn't run Zooks over.

"Ow, ow, ow, DAMNIT!"

Zed stumbled into the shelter of the team's chosen hidey-hole, his shoulder ablaze with pain. Zound ran over and gave him a quick once-over.

"You're still in the game," he said.

"What're you talking about," Zed asked incredulously. "I got shot! _Four _times. I friggin' _felt _it!"

"Yeah, but none of the paintballs exploded," Zound replied. "So technically, you didn't get hit."

Zed rolled his eyes. "Great. So I got hit and bruised for nothing."

"Stop whining," Zooks snapped. "I got hit behind the ear! Bruise is swelling like a goddamn balloon."

"I thought we weren't allowed to take headshots," Zed frowned.

"Not on purpose," Zooks grunted. "But the DEMONs are real trigger-happy for a bunch of pirate-playing, Cadaver-loving clowns. And they got piss-poor aim."

No wonder they were on the other team.

* * *

"Uh... somebody? A little help here? Please?"

Zoiks and Zowie hurried over to help Zed. He'd just returned with several bags worth of supplies for Scarecrow's Joker lair. One trip down, lots more to go.

"Glue, glitter, more glue, still more glue, confetti, more glitter, ice cream—ice cream?" Zoiks looked up.

"Yeah. 'Half Baked' for Joker, 'Cherry Garcia' Frozen Yogurt for Harley. Didn't know what Scarecrow likes, but I can always make another trip."

"That's a _lot _of ice cream," Zoiks observed.

"Well, duh," Zowie rolled her eyes. "It's _Ben and Jerry's_."

"So?"

Zowie was about to roll her eyes again when Zound and Zooks walked in. "Finished," Zooks said cheerfully, making a beeline for the fridge. He scooped up the ice cream on the way, shoved it in the freezer, then opened the fridge compartment and yanked out a six-pack of beer.

"Boys, brawn and beer," Zowie murmured. "Three things that go together and they all start with 'B'."

"How 'bout brains?" Zooks asked, handing cans to Zoiks and Zed.

"Yeah?" Zound grinned, taking one for himself. "What about brains?"

"Ever hear the phrase 'one of these things doesn't belong?'" Zowie smirked.

"Guess Zowie doesn't want—" Zooks stopped as Zound tossed a can over. He sighed. "Zound, you're such a softie."

Zoiks cleared his throat. "If we're done handing out beverages, perhaps we could hear which site you picked for the lair."

The Zs looked at the remaining supplies still scattered on the floor, shrugged and moved over to the kitchen table.

"Out of the original list of ten, five didn't make the short list and two are slated for demolition within the week," Zound started. "As for the remaining three, the first is on 42nd Street and Leary Road. Typical abandoned warehouse, three stories. Solid construction, still has access to power and water. Still has lights, furniture. Even has working toilets. We'd just need to add the Joker lair tweaks and it's done."

"What Zound isn't saying is that it's smack in the middle of the East End," Zooks interrupted.

"Well that scratches that out," Zowie sniffed.

"I think we should keep it in the files, but I agree it won't be our first choice," Zound nodded. "There's bound to be someone who wouldn't mind having a lair there just to piss Catwoman off, just like Mr. Nygma did several months back. Besides, it's still a perfectly good location."

"Damn straight," Zooks declared. "If you need a roof over your head, you can't always be picky."

"What about the other two?" Zoiks asked.

"Second choice used to be a start-up tech support company outside Chinatown," Zound continued after taking a sip. "Two stories, ready for Joker lair tweaking." He paused to pull out a schematic of the lair. "We might be able to use the schematics from the last Joker lair," he added, grabbing the relevant printout.

Zowie shook her head. "Not before tearing down the walls here and here and put up walls right over there," she pointed out with a finger.

Zed took a closer look at the schematics. "There's a chance that we'd rip out some key wires with that much renovation. Still, it's doable."

Zound and Zooks exchanged a look.

"What?" Zoiks asked flatly.

"Bumped into a pal of mine," Zooks admitted.

"He means 'hooker,'" Zound butted in. Zowie snorted.

"Hey, don't put her down just 'cuz of her job," Zooks protested. "She's damn smart. Talented, too. She does this thing—"

"_Anyways_," Zound interrupted, "Zook's 'pal' confirmed that there tends to be a lot of Bat activity around Chinatown."

"All thanks to that damn Ra's guy," Zooks muttered. "Keeps attracting the Bat and his kids like moths to a flame, beating the crap out of the DEMON folks and shipping them off. Shame. They ain't all a bunch of stupid religious loonies. Some of them are pretty decent."

"But they still don't know how to talk to ladies," Zowie sniffed.

"I don't see any ladies around here. Do—ow!" Zound broke off and rubbed his shoulder, glaring at Zowie.

Zowie smiled sweetly. "Oops. Hand slipped."

Zooks finished his beer and grabbed the last can. "Third choice is a house in the residential district, 'bout ten blocks north of the ol' LexCorp offices," he said. "Quiet neighbourhood, well off the Bat's radar. Used to hold a marijuana grow-op."

"And _that's_ the problem," Zound said sourly. "If it didn't get burned up to a crisp, it got re-routed and tangled into a complete mess. Plus, excess heat had mold growing everywhere, so they had to gut the basement and the ground floor."

"So we either set up in the East End, risk Bat trouble, or face massive renovation," Zoiks summarized.

"Yep. Pretty much," Zooks nodded.

"Maybe not," Zound said thoughtfully.

The rest of the Zs looked at him. "What do you mean?" Zed asked.

"Well, the last site would require more manpower and know-how than the five of us can handle, so we'd have to bring in specialized help, right?"

"Yeah," Zowie said.

"So why don't we go the extra mile and hire a professional crew to do the work for us?"

Zooks raised a hand. "Don't you need, like, a buncha forms and permits and crap?"

"Not if their computer records say we've already got them," Zound smiled. 

A grin slowly spread over everyone's face.

"That won't take too long at all," Zoiks nodded.

"Good," Zound replied. "'Cuz I got an idea on how to spend some of that free time we suddenly have _and _generate some extra expenses for Scarecrow."

* * *

"How did you get the other guys to join us for this paintball game?" Zed asked, rubbing his shoulder.

"We needed a minimum of twenty people to rent the paintball field," Zound shrugged. "Duo, Ditto, Frankie, Raptor and Tremor jumped at the chance to fire guns without actually killing anyone. Plus, we're all going out for drinks afterwards."

"And the other team?"

"Hodge-podge of DEMONs from Chinatown and a couple bottom-feeder henchmen who worked for Hugo Strange."

"So _that's _why you split up the teams the way you did," Zooks approved.

"Seemed to make sense," Zound said. "By the way, Zed, I take it that things are going according to plan?"

Zed nodded. "Fnd'ly snagged our flag a couple minutes ago. There were three or four other guys with him."

"Zoiks, Zowie—how many guys have you taken out so far?" Zound called out.

"Five," Zoiks called back.

"Should've been six!" snapped Zowie in frustration. "Stupid gun jam!"

"How did you know they'd all go for our flag like that anyways?" Zed asked curiously.

"Anyone who'd willingly jump to their death without a second's thought, just because their boss said so, wouldn't just sit by and guard the flag," Zed replied. "And Hugo's crew are too stupid to do anything other than follow orders. Even if they're stupid orders."

Zooks snorted. "_Especially _if they're stupid orders."

"And you're sure they'll follow the main path to take our flag back to their base?" Zed pressed.

"Pretty sure," Zound nodded.

"Still," Zoiks said, coming down the stairs. "It's time to spring the trap. Which means we should get going."

* * *

Fnd'ly was enjoying himself.

He didn't expect that. After all, how could a warrior such as himself have a good time with such a decadent game, so typical of these corrupt Western civilizations? How could a warrior such as himself have fun playing with these flimsy toys, rather than shed blood and tears in the name of the great and powerful Ra's Al Ghul, Light of the East, Terror of the West, Apex of the age of Oneness through One Rule by the most worthy Demon's Head, Anointed of Anubis and Osiris, Chosen of Ra, whose greatness is not desecrated nor destroyed by death or grave, he who dies not but arises phoenix-like from ashes to rule again, whose dominion is Yea the entirety of the world of Man?

Despite all odds, he was enjoying himself. He had led his men in glorious battle, setting an example for his fellow DEMONs and the corrupt underlings he had been saddled with. He had single-handedly captured the objective, though he still didn't understand how a plain blue cloth could be so important. And he was halfway back to his assigned base, prize tightly gripped in hand.

Then he saw the message, pinned to the branch of a small tree.

He slowed down, trying to read it. The words were too small to understand at a glance. Fnd'ly was reluctant to delay his impending victory, but his curiosity overcame his desire for glory. Just one minute, he told himself.

Reaching up, he pulled the message off the branch.

"What does it say," Gb'sn asked.

Fnd'ly didn't answer; too busy trying to translate the message. It was in English, which was not his native tongue. However, the excellent education provided by the Demon's Head, supplemented by the propaganda services he occasionally deigned to peruse since arriving at the city of He Who Must Not Be Named, overcame that minor setback.

"Thanks for stopping to read this," he said at last. He paused before reading the last few words. "Look out."

He never had the chance to read it again and confirm the accuracy of his translation, as the world suddenly exploded in splatters of pink and purple.

* * *

Zound's plan had worked. He had predicted that the opposing team would charge for their flag. He had predicted the route they would take to get there and back. He had predicted where to place the Zs to pick off some of the stragglers, where to place a scout to provide 'resistance', and where to ambush them. He had predicted that the element of surprise would outweigh any poor aiming on their part.

He had not predicted that one of the team would continue firing long after the opposing team had been eliminated.

"That's for shooting me four fucking times!" yelled Zed, finger pressed firmly on the trigger. Judging by the way paintballs were pouring out like water from a fire hydrant, he had left his paint gun on automatic. A moan was all Fnd'ly could offer in reply.

"And that's for stealing my seat on the bus yesterday, you prick!" Zed continued, turning his wrath on Gb'sn.

"That's for knocking my drink into my lap last week!" Zed howled. By this point, he was just jumping from target to target, all of whom were writhing on the ground.

"That's for pushing me into the wall, asshole!"

"That's for chasing me down the street, you piece of shit!"

"That's for locking me in the bathroom!"

By this point, the henchmen Zound had signed on to join the Zs were nervously inching away. Zoiks was frowning thoughtfully. Zooks was starting to sweat, and not from the heat and exertion of running around in layers of loose clothing. Zowie was grinning from ear to ear.

And Zound? Zound had one eye on Zed and another eye on the fat slob of a judge, who was shuffling towards them. "Hey!" he yelled. "That's enough! Game's over!"

Zed ignored him.

"Hey, punk, you hear me?" the oblivious idiot continued. "I said—"

They never got to hear what he was about to say, as Zed abruptly turned around and unloaded a full round of paintballs into his crotch.

As the judge crumpled to the ground, Zed paused and looked around, a confused look replacing the mask of vengeance that had gripped his face for the past minute. "Where was I?" he asked.

"Yam fries," Zowie supplied helpfully.

"Thanks," Zed nodded. Turning back, he opened fire again. "That's for stealing my yam fries! And that's for..."

* * *

"Twenty sets of professional paint gun gear. Used," Zound said, checking the items off his list. "One vintage Donkey Kong machine. And—Zooks? Hey, Zooks! Have you set up the pit yet?"

"Just finished," Zooks confirmed.

"Then we are done," Zound pronounced happily.

Zoiks came in through the front door as he checked off the final item. "That was Scarecrow," he reported, pointing to his cell phone. "He's ready to wire the payment over as soon as he inspects the lair."

"When's he going to get here?" Zowie asked.

"Tomorrow, some time after ten."

"Good, that gives us time to christen that barbecue pit and beat Zed's high score at Donkey Kong."

"Barbecue?" Zooks said quizzically. "I thought it was for—never mind."

"He thought it was a death trap," Zowie laughed.

"Psyche!" Zed grinned.

"So who brought the steaks?" Zoiks asked.

"Got 'em," Zound said, producing an ice chest. "I got buffalo, ostrich and elk."

Four sets of eyes blinked at him.

"What are we, mountain lions?" Zowie asked finally.

"There's an exotic meats place just opened up on 23rd. Thought I'd give it a try."

Four sets of eyes blinked again.

"It's supposed to be good for ya. Very lean."

...

...

...

...

"What you guys don't like to try new things?"

…

…

…

…

"On Scarecrow's dime?"

"He does have a point," "Well, yeah," "That is true," were said in unison. Only Zoiks shook his head.

"Save the receipt and we'll charge it to the next job. If we put it on Scarecrow's tab he's liable to think it's food for the hyenas and expect to find it in the freezer."

* * *

"Adrianas was not perfect," the cold, suave figure on the flatscreen TV intoned and Zed, Zooks, Zowie, and Zound recited in unison. "It was perfectly planned." They all waited for the silent beat and then… "But it was executed with Neolithic incompetence."

The TV switched off to a communal groan.

"Ninety minutes," Zoiks announced.

"It's the best scene," Zound objected. "Best 'I'm so cool, blame the henches' in the history of American film, dude!"

"Ninety minutes to Scarecrow, _dude_," Zoiks warned.

"He's right," Zooks agreed. "If we don't wanna get gassed, we better get movin'. Got a nice hideout for us already. Shame to let it go to waste."

The others nodded in agreement. One by one, they left the lair.

"Coming, Zowie?" Zound asked.

"Yeah," she sighed. "It's just... it'll be a while before we can pull off another job like this."

"True," Zound admitted, turning to leave. "Of course, if you want to stay here, go ahead. We can always play Call of Duty without you."

"And miss the chance to headshot the lot of you?" Zowie hurried to join him. "In your dreams."


	3. Hours of Operation

**Don't Fear the Z**

**Chapter 3: Hours of Operation**

"I'm bored."

Zoiks sighed and looked up from the issue of National Geographic he was perusing. "You could read a book," he suggested.

"I've read them already."

"How about the newspaper?"

"All we have are old copies of the Post," Zed whined.

"Watch some TV."

"They're all re-runs."

"You could go on the computer."

"And do what? You disabled the internet router so no one could track us by our IP addresses, remember? Which means no Web-surfing, no e-mail, no Facebook—_nothing_."

"Call of Duty over the LAN network we set up?"

"I still can't close my eyes without seeing Zowie's victory dance every time she beats us."

"N00b," Zowie piped up on cue.

"Of course, you could just go out for a night on the town like Zooks did," Zound called out.

Zoiks frowned. Zooks shouldn't have done that. The whole point of setting up a hidden base with all the comforts they could think of was so they _wouldn't _have to go out, risk bumping into Scarecrow, and find out whether he still wanted to give them all heart attacks as part of his 'payment.'

At that moment, Zooks came strolling through the door, a swagger in his walk.

"Let me guess," Zound said dryly. "You got lucky."

"Damn straight," Zooks winked. "You guys should've come."

"And see you make a fool of yourself?" Zowie snorted. "No thanks."

"Hey, I managed to get some action," Zooks protested. "Got to tap a pair of real hot babes, if you know what I mean."

"_Two _of them?" Zed's eyes bulged. "This isn't fair," he muttered enviously.

"Oh, don't be jealous," Zound reassured him. "I'm sure he didn't last long."

"Hey!"

Zowie muttered inaudibly. Something about men and measuring things.

"I'll have you know that my stamina was just fine," Zooks said hotly.

"And off we go into the land of 'too much information,'" Zowie groaned.

"Plus I got us another job."

"You WHAT?"

Everyone jumped. No one had ever heard Zoiks yell before. Not until now.

"What part of 'Keep a low profile and stay off the radar' didn't you get?" Zoiks snapped, jumping to his feet. "Do you _want _someone tracking us down and spraying us with fear gas? Or getting arrested?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Zooks protested, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "It wasn't like that. Double Dare just—"

"Double Dare?" Zoiks roared. "As in the twins? Are you nuts? When are you going to start thinking with your head and not your dick, you idiot? Building another themed lair will bring the heat on us—"

"That's just it," Zooks interrupted. "They don't _want _a themed lair. They just want a bare-bones operation. Bed, fridge, something to cook on, working toilets. That's it. No theme. No 'extra expenses.' Just—"

"But that's what we do," Zed pointed out. "We do themes. We do 'extra expenses.' That's our thing. That's what our clients want."

"Our clients normally want something set up so they can put their latest scheme into action," Zooks said. "Akiki and Margot—"

"You're on a first-name basis with the clients?" Zound raised an eyebrow. "How nice."

"They don't want that," Zooks continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted. "They just want something in Gotham where they can hide."

"Hide?" Now Zoiks looked more confused than angry. "Hide from who? The cops?"

"See, that's what happens when you don't get out," Zooks sniffed. "Ya miss out on all the gossip. Word on the street is Scarecrow wanted a Joker lair 'cuz he wanted to spring Joker outta—"

"He what?" Zowie burst out.

"Will you let me finish?" Zooks cried.

...

...

"_Thank _you," Zooks said sarcastically. "Anyways, Scarecrow busted Joker outta Arkham. Seems the doc finally realized everyone's scared shitless of Joker, so he thought he'd pick up a few tips. Well, Joker didn't exactly play ball. Clown's gone outta control. He's running around, ripping off everybody else's themes and takin' them for a spin. The twins're freaked that he'll kill someone soon, and they don't wanna be the ones singin' 'Goodnight, Gracie.' So they're looking for a place to hide until Bats drags Laughing Boy back to the loony bin."

Zed scratched his head. "But we don't do that."

"That's the point," Zooks pounced. "No one'll suspect us of building these things, even though we got the know-how, _because _'we don't do that.'"

"That could work," Zoiks said thoughtfully. "I still say you shouldn't have gone out, Zooks. You put us all at great risk. But it would quell the cabin fever that has been rising around here."

"Our savings won't last forever," Zound added in a similar tone. "A little bit of extra income would help us stretch things out."

"This is still kinda weird," Zed frowned. "I mean, hiding from Joker, that's a no-brainer. But to give up your theme? And all the major comforts of home?"

"They're circus performers-turned-thieves, not Rogues," Zound pointed out. "They don't have a theme to give up."

"Plus, they have a certain familiarity with spartan and substandard accommodations," Zoiks added.

"Which means it'll be easier to set something up," Zooks finished.

Zowie shook her head. "I have a bad feeling about this."

* * *

Zooks started the coffeepot going, citing that he was 'exhausted' after the busy night he'd had. Of course, it was only a coincidence that this took him away from Zowie and her efforts to wheedle someone—anyone—into playing Call of Duty with her. Eventually, Zed caved in.

While Zowie and Zed turned on the computers, Zound went over to see what Zoiks was doing. He had put aside his National Geographic and was rapidly tapping away on his laptop.

"I am starting a search on possible hideout locations," Zoiks said, answering Zound's unspoken question. "It is harder than it looks."

"Especially without any themes to narrow the list down," Zound sympathized. "What have you done so far?"

Zoiks motioned for Zound to sit down. "So far, I've been eliminating locations based on size," he began as Zound grabbed a nearby chair. "Not too big—as Double Dare won't want or need room for torture chambers, money bins or storage for theme-related paraphernalia."

"We'll also need somewhere that's as close to move-in ready as possible," Zound suggested.

Zoiks sighed. "That search parameter will not get us as far as you'd think. I am afraid that the information on our sites is not as extensive as I would like. That is why we have to visit each site in person before transforming it into an actual lair."

"True," Zound conceded. "But our info does distinguish between 'move-in ready,' 'work-in-progress,' and 'desperately in need of a complete overhaul.'"

"We really must come up with better names for those categories," Zoiks observed.

"Yeah, but 'Level 1, 2 and 3' lacks a certain panache," Zound said. He snapped his fingers. "Oh, before I forget: since we have to do an inspection, we'd better make sure this place is as close as possible to bring in any amenities that are lacking."

"But not so close that any idiot will be able to track us back here," Zoiks added, his fingers typing away. At last, he hit the 'Enter' key. Zoiks and Zound waited for the results to appear.

They were quite surprised by the program's findings.

"One location?" Zound said.

"I may have put especial emphasis on the criteria of size and location," Zoiks admitted.

"Whaddya guys doing?" Zooks asked, coming up with a cup of coffee. "Ooh, we got something," he answered his own question, leaning over to see the details. "Huh. Over on 11th and Murphy. This could work. Now we just need someone to check it out."

* * *

Zooks looked both ways once, twice, three times. Then he quickly dashed across the street.

According to Zoiks, it was his turn. Zooks had no idea how he had determined that. Maybe it was from the same place that spawned that kick-ass lair program of his. Or maybe he pulled it out of his ass.

Besides, he figured, he might as well buy himself another meal while he was out. He wouldn't go club-hopping or pub-crawling, of course. Much as he hated to admit it, Zoiks did have some reason to chew him out. But there was no reason why he couldn't go grab some fish n' chips, with a nice glass (or two or three) of beer to wash it down. Maybe grab some take-out to take back to the Zs. Or steak.

Then he looked up ahead and saw Poison Ivy walking down the street. Normally he didn't mind checking her out. Green skin wasn't his thing, but all that exposed skin, coupled with a pair of truly yummy knockers, more than compensated. But if she saw him, it would cause all sorts of problems. Plus, Zoiks would never let him hear the end of it.

So he did an about-face, walked back a few steps and opened the nearest door.

Looking around, he was surprised to see himself in a church. One of those old ones, with the tall arches and the stone and the stained-glass windows. Kind of thing you don't see much these days. A priest came out to greet him, all decked in black with that funny white collar thing. Zooks prepared himself to say hello and maybe face a couple minutes on how he really oughta come over on Sunday. Blah, blah.

He did not expect the priest to wag his finger at him like a naughty kid.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. You're late, young man. The meeting's already started."

What meeting?

"Oh, this is your first time, isn't it? Well, better late than never. Right this way, please."

What the hell? Er, heck. What the heck.

Before Zooks knew it, the priest was hauling him down the hall towards a flight of stairs, their footsteps echoing throughout the church. That wasn't the only thing he heard, come to think of it. As they approached the stairs, he could hear a couple people talking.

"I... I can't deny it any longer."

"It's hard, I know."

"We have to take inventory..."

Sounded like the church was overdue for some spring—summer?—cleaning. Guess at least one person was in denial about the whole thing, draggin' their heels up 'till now and all. If that was the case, then hey, it's a free country. Their business and all. But why drag him into this sh—um, silliness.

The priest started marching up the stairs, his hand still on Zooks' arm. The voices were getting louder, but he still couldn't make out everything. Too much echo.

"...what we see... say... hear... stays here. Nothing leaves this room."

Yeah, yeah. And what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Yeesh. Soundin' like some kinda goddam—uh, gosh darn conspiracy. Maybe that Dan Brown guy was onto somethin'.

They walked down the corridor and turned left into a large room. On a table near the door, Zooks could see coffee and cookies. Not exactly what he was going for, but free food and drinks was always welcome. Especially since it wasn't just the cheap crap—um, crud. It wasn't crud. If the smell wafting from the coffee pot was any indication, this was the good stuff. And the cookies—man! Each one five or six inches wide, loaded with chocolate chunks the size of a quarter. Zooks had never been closer to being converted.

Unfortunately, the priest wouldn't let him stop to pick up anything, too intent on hauling him towards the center of the room. There were ten or twelve people there, sitting in chairs that had been pulled up in a rough circle.

Wait a minute.

The priest plopped him in an empty chair, sat beside him and beamed.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Sorry I'm late, but I found a new soul in need of salvation."

This looked familiar...

"Let's go around in a circle and introduce ourselves."

Like some kinda...

"My name is Philip, and I'm an alcoholic."

Oh.

"My name is Jim, and I'm an alcoholic."

Fuck.

"My name is Jack, and I'm an alcoholic."

Um.

"My name is Betty, and I'm an alcoholic."

Fudge. Yeah, that's better.

"My name is Shane, and I'm an alcoholic."

Though the swear word seemed more appropriate somehow.

* * *

It took almost two hours to get out of that thing. Then Zooks needed another hour or so to get to the site and look it over. Plus a stop by Taco Bell to grab some fast food. As a result, it was almost ten o'clock by the time he got back.

Zooks took another look at his watch. 9:58 pm. He cursed.

Over the year or so that the 'core group' of Zs got to know each other, Zooks had basically established a rep for two things: knowing the best places to go for food and drinks and always being the guy who put beer on the shopping list. As such, he knew that when he got back and explained why it took him so long, there was no way the others would let it pass. No way in hell.

He was not mistaken.

"Always thought you had a problem, what with that beer belly that keeps threatening to pop out," Zowie teased. "Never knew what the ladies saw in you."

That was a lie. He had washboard abs, not a beer belly, and was damn proud of it.

"Nah, Zooks wasn't going there for an AA meeting," Zed laughed. "He went there 'cuz he found religion."

"Found or founded?" Zound asked.

"Ha! I can see it now," Zowie snorted. "The Cult of Zooks."

"All hail Zooks!"

"Bow before Zooks!"

"In Zooks we trust!"

"Funny! Real funny!" Zooks snapped, stomping to the fridge and reached for a beer. After a moment's thought, he pulled his hand away and grabbed a Coke instead.

"Did you have a chance to evaluate the site after your impromptu effort to become sober?" Zoiks asked, always on business.

"Yep," Zooks replied, plopping down on an empty chair. He cracked open his Coke, took a gulp, and started chomping away at the first of his three burritos.

"Is the site suitable for a hideout?" Zoiks continued.

"Pretty much," Zooks shrugged, propping his feet up. It looked like the other Zs had also gotten some take-out—sushi, by the looks of it—and had finished it while watching a Star Wars movie. One of the prequels, where that annoying whatsisname kept yapping away and making an ass of himself. "No leaks or cracks. Running water and power. Got two beds, a table and a mini-fridge. Throw in a couple chairs and a hot plate, and it's ready."

"We don't even need chairs," Zowie pointed out. "Just use foldable stools instead. Easier to carry, and we've got a bunch in the back room."

"Nice," Zound nodded. "So who's gonna bring 'em over?"

* * *

Zound was, as it turned out. Apparently, it was his turn. Somehow. At least Zoiks was willing to wait until the morning, so he could try to get some rest. 'Try' being the operative word. For some reason, sushi, ice cream, popcorn and Star Wars: The Phantom Menace turned into a nightmare where Queen Amidala was getting it on with Jar Jar Binks. Needless to say, he did not have a good night's sleep.

Zound slowly tossed four stools into the back seat of the Z's van, hopped in and started the engine. He noticed immediately that the gas tank was almost empty. Apparently the last Z to take the van out for a spin neglected to fill it up. After a moment's thought, he scowled, cursed, and slapped himself on the head.

Scolding himself, he took a right instead of a left and headed for the nearest gas station. He made it there and got his gas, but not before dozing off once or twice. Or three times, if the blare of horns was any indication. Clearly he needed something to wake up. And it didn't look like he could last until he got back to the hideout.

So off he went to Starbucks. Found a place to park through some aggressive manoeuvring, beating some red-faced broad to the prize. Only downside was the fact that it was half a block away. Not that that was a bad thing. There was nothing like walking through the streets of Gotham to drive home what a beautiful, vibrant city it was.

Of course, normally he wasn't trying to avoid being seen by capes, Rogues, henchesor anyone who might recognize him and what he did for a living.

He had almost reached the site, debating whether to get a regular coffee or an espresso, when he spotted someone. He didn't need to see the henchmen flanking the man, looking all tough and intimidating. Nor did he need to see the custom-tailored, expensive tuxedo. The distinctive waddle was enough to tell Zound that Oswald Cobblepot, a.k.a. the Penguin, was five seconds away from seeing him.

It took only three of those seconds to dive into the nearest shop. As a tinkling bell gently announced his entrance, he sidestepped behind a conveniently placed tan structure, placing it between him and the trio he was trying to avoid. One with some curious strips of red.

As his breathing slowed, his brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing. His heart sank. Slowly, he turned around.

The refuge he was hiding behind was a mannequin. It was tan because that was the color of its ersatz skin.

And the strips of red were certain articles of clothing that preserved its modesty. If it cared about such things.

"Well, hello there!"

Zound's heart sank even further. Slowly, he turned around.

A matronly-looking woman greeted him with a warm smile. A warm smile and... Zound forced himself to look the employee in the eye, silently musing that a fifty-something old woman had no business wearing see-through blouses. Or low-cut, push-up bras.

"You know, we don't see many men in here. Unless they're shopping for their significant other. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"Um..."

"To buy some sexy lingerie for your wife?"

"Um..."

"Or maybe you're just trying to spice things up with your lady friend."

"Um..."

"Well, don't you worry. I'll help you find just the right thing to help you get 'lucky,' as you boys like to say."

The woman clamped her hand on his arm with a grip that would make Batman proud. As the delightful lady began her little spiel, Zound stifled a groan. This trip was going to take a bit longer than expected.

"Now, then, do you know what cup size your lady friend wears?"

"Huh?"

"You know, how big are her breasts? Or boobs, you young men call them now. Or—"

"Ah, ah, no, no, I—I don't know how big, er, they are," Zound hastily stammered, thinking to himself that women old enough to be her mother shouldn't know so many ways to describe certain aspects of the female body.

The woman cooed in admiration. "Oh now, isn't that sweet? Playing the waiting game, getting to know that special someone before the big night. Girls do appreciate that sort of thing, you know. Especially since it's so rare. Seems all men know these days are 'wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am.' What a shame."

Zound's eyes were starting to bulge at this point.

"In _that _case, might I suggest some slinky lingerie? Silk is always a classic. It feels so good on a woman's body, not to mention how it feels when you're taking it off. For both sides, of course."

He really didn't want to know how she knew that, Zound reflected. Ignorance truly was bliss.

"And when all those annoying clothes are out of the way, and all that skin has a chance to breathe, then the fun can begin," the woman continued, utterly oblivious to how her disturbingly frank and detailed knowledge was causing all sorts of internal torment in her customer. "We won't go into all the various positions you and your lady friend could assume—"

Oh thank _GOD_!

"—but there are several toys you could use to make things more, shall we say, arousing. Like handcuffs."

Zound's eyes were definitely bulging now.

"Oh, don't worry," the woman reassured him, misunderstanding the look on his face. "We're not talking about the 'bad-time' handcuffs the police use, dear. These are '_fun-time' _handcuffs!"

A strangled squawk rang out. It took a second for Zound to realize it came from him.

"Now, our handcuffs are all padded with faux-fur, so as not to harm our dear animal friends. They come in just about every color imaginable. Except white. We stopped carrying that color after receiving customer feedback. They kept getting dirty and stained, apparently."

There wasn't anything Zound could say to that. There really wasn't.

* * *

"What took you so long?" Zed called out when Zound got back. He and the other Z's were watching a re-run of House. An old one, Zound noted absently, as House was encouraging his henchmen to poke the patient of the week's spine for some test or other.

"Almost bumped into Penguin. Had to take a detour to avoid him," Zound replied simply. He decided not to go into the specifics, knowing he'd never hear the end of it.

Zowie glanced up and stared at him suspiciously. She had the funny feeling that he wasn't telling everything. Call it female intuition.

Nobody else did, though. Maybe it was her imagination.

"Did you deliver the stools?" Zoiks asked.

"Sure did."

"And the hot plate?"

...

"Oops."

"Great," Zed sighed. "Another trip. Who's going to go this time?"

* * *

Zed didn't like going out on business. He never liked it before. He didn't like it now. _Especially _when he was supposed to be keeping his head down.

He much preferred staying at home or merrily working away at some lair. That's why he didn't voice a single peep of protest when Zoiks announced his plans to have the Zs bunker up. Even if there was nothing to read. Or watch. There were computer games, after all. And since he was the only one willing to get slaughtered by Zowie's hands in Call of Duty, he could always use that as leverage to get her—and anyone else he could rope in—to play something he was better at. Like Starcraft.

But now the Zs were back at work, when they were supposed to be lying low. Setting up this lair— hideout, Zed corrected himself; it was too plain and discrete to warrant the moniker of 'lair'—had only taken two days. A new record. It would've taken less time if Zooks had remembered to take the hot plate with him. Instead, the Zs had to make an extra trip.

Still, things were going well so far. He'd made it to the lair, dropped off the hot plate, double-checked to make sure that they had remembered everything, and then left. He looked furtively around. No one.

So he started to sneak down the street to the nearby parking lot, where he'd left the van. He was about halfway there when he heard a honk from behind him.

He turned around to see a sleek Lamborghini pull up. And not just any Lamborghini. It was a Reventón. Carbon-fiber exterior. 6.5 L V12 engine. 6-speed manual transmission. 0 to 62 mph in 3.4 seconds. Maximum speed of 221 mph.

Normally, Zed was all over details like that. Hell, he'd even printed a glossy poster-sized copy of one for his room. For once, though, Zed didn't notice any of that. Instead, his attention entirely occupied by the color of the car.

Purple.

Shit.

It was purple.

Shit.

And that meant...

Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit!_


	4. Where's the Off Switch?

**Don't Fear the Z**

**Chapter 4: Where's the Off Switch?**

"Hurry up, it's already started," Zound urged.

"Coming, coming," Zowie asked, coming over with the chips and salsa. "Move," she ordered.

"What's the magic word?" Zound asked.

"Now."

"Try again."

"Bite me."

"That's two words, not one."

"Move or I'll spill the salsa over you."

Zound looked mildly interested at that one. "And use my body as a plate to scoop the salsa on the chips? That sounds kinda kinky. You know people actually get together and organize events to do... that..."

He stopped when he saw the look in Zowie's eyes. A wise man knew when to fold them. He scooted over.

"Good boy," she smiled.

"Bite me."

"The phrase loses its impact if you're just repeating it."

"Or acts as reinforcement or symmetry."

"_Anyways_," Zooks interrupted, "which one is this, anyways?" He sat down with a case of beer and started popping off caps with the expertise of a master. "And is that yammering Jar-whatsit in this one?"

"'Episode II: Attack of the Clones;' yes, Jar-Jar Binks is in it but he doesn't have as many lines as Episode I," Zowie reassured him, accepting a bottle.

"Thank God."

"Amen."

"Zoiks, you coming?" Zed craned his neck around the chair and looked at their de-facto leader.

"Yes, yes," Zoiks replied, sitting down with a bowl full of pretzels and a frown.

"Problem?" Zound asked.

"Not really," Zoiks said absently. He was staring at his watch. "I just thought that Zed would have been back by now."

"Probably traffic," Zowie offered.

"Probably."

* * *

Maybe it wasn't her, Zed thought. Maybe it wasn't that particular Rogue. The one with a feline disposition and whimsy.

It was possible, right? It could be someone else. Someone _else_ driving a limited-edition Reventón, of which only twenty were released to the public—plus one that was slated for the Lamborghini Museum, of course. A limited-edition Reventón that's _also_ purple. Yeah. Big coincidence. But it's possible right?

Yeah, it was probably someone else. Out on a stroll. Or a drive. Just passing by. Gonna keep going 'round the corner, just you wait and see—

Um... slowing down. Slowing down. Green light up ahead, so no reason to slow down unless—lost! Yeah, poor guy's lost. Or gal. New in town, maybe. Or a fellow Gothamite who isn't familiar with this side of town.

Stopped. The car stopped. Not just stopped-to-check-the-map stop. No, this is a full engine-purring-down-lights-blinking-out stop.

Okay, Zed told himself. Calm down. Breathe. It's all right. Driver's probably just checking the map for directions. Something innocent like that. Just because the Reventón—the _purple_ Purrmobile Reventón—stopped, doesn't mean it's She Who's Name Must Not Be Spoken.

After all, what were the odds that it would be Catwoman? What were the odds that it would be the same woman who he tried to meet the one and only time she contacted the Zs to set up a lair? What were the odds that it was the same Rogue who he was trying to have a simple business conversation in a dark, dank alley when they were so rudely interrupted by Robin and Batgirl in the alley? What were the odds that it would be that very mercurial individual who, by some type of logic that could only be called feline, somehow concluded that the junior Bats showed up because he got sloppy and led them straight to her? What were the odds that it could be the same vengeful fury who hunted him down like some mouse and expected—no, _demanded_—that she be compensated for her inconvenience and his supposed incompetence. And not with a nice cash payout or an exemption on the 'extra expenses' that were usually foisted on all the other clients. No sir, she wanted actual information on another client's lair. Doesn't make sense, does it?

The door hissed open, like some kinda shuttle from Star Trek. Or Doc Brown's time machine from the Back to the Future. Only no one from those series—not even that Seven of Nine chick—ever wore leather boots. With a heel. And while some of them wore outfits that didn't leave much to the imagination, they were never poured into skin-tight purple leather.

Maybe Bruce Wayne or one of the male Rogues had decided to start cross-dressing. Yeah, that's it. Crossdressing. Why not? Brave new world, right? Please, Zed prayed, please let it be...

The driver stepped out of the car. Zed's eyes swept over her body—definitely a woman, no doubt about it—noting her shapely things, the curve of her hips, her waist, her generous lack of complexity and...

"Hi, Zed," the woman chirped, shutting the door.

Zed had to face facts. Costume was right. Color scheme was right. Hallelujah, the curves were right. Even the voice was right.

It really was Catwoman.

Most red-blooded men would be staring and drooling and rapidly fast-forwarding through a mental montage of X-rated YouTube clips. Zed went through the same experience for a brief second before other images burst through to the forefront:

Jennifer Garner's Sydney Bristow laying the smackdown—or worse—in half a dozen different wigs and outfits per episode.

Summer Glau's River Tam taking out an entire horde of bloodthirsty Reavers singlehandedly.

Kate Beckinsale's Selene gunning or decapitating her enemies.

Uma Thurman's The Bride relentlessly eviscerating just about everyone in her quest for vengeance.

Catwoman, standing in front of him in all her purple glory, with claws and whips at the ready.

Zed reflected that someone, somewhere must really, _really _hate him.

* * *

"I've always found it rather funny," Zound said. "Padme's a queen."

"And then she became a senator," Zowie added, following his train of thought.

"Because in the universe according to Lucas, Naboo queens—"

"And what kind of dumb name for a planet is 'Naboo,' anyways?"

"I know, right? Anyways, Naboo queens 'serve' for a maximum of two four-year terms before stepping down."

"Like the President. Which means it's not really a monarchy."

"Exactly. Apparently the monarchy became an elected post."

"Who ever heard of an 'elected' monarch?"

"Who ever heard of an 'elected' monarch who became a senator?"

"Who ever heard of an 'elected' monarch who became a senator who appointed _Jar Jar Binks _as her proxy?"

"It's like all her brains and intelligence just dribbled out of her ears."

"It's weird."

"It's stupid."

"It's Lucas."

"Are you guys _still _nit-picking this thing?" Zooks complained.

Zound and Zowie looked at each other. "Well, yeah," they replied in unison.

"Just pipe down, will ya? I'm trying to watch this."

"You mean you're watching Natalie Portman," Zowie snorted.

"Same thing."

"Zed would disagree with you if he was here," Zound said before glancing at his watch and frowning. "Still not back yet. Traffic must be nuts right now."

"Must be," Zoiks echoed unconvincingly. He stood up and left the room, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket.

* * *

After having three disastrous encounters with clients in the field, and many sleepless nights of planning, Zed had developed a strategy—an untested one to be sure, but now seemed as good a time as any to try it out—for any future encounters. He took a deep breath, turned around and ran away as fast as he could.

As he ran, he dug out his cell phone. He needed backup, and it was time to call in the cavalry. Wait. Which pocket was it in? Nope, not in his left front pocket. Strange, he normally put it there. Not in the right front pocket. Where was it? Back left pocket? Nope. Back _right _pocket. Nada. Tried the left front pocket again. No it wasn't there. WHERE THE FUCK WAS THE DAMN THING?

In desperation, Zed plunged a hand in his jacket pocket. Bingo! He yanked out his wallet from his jacket, fumbled it, almost dropped it, grabbed it in the nick of time and reached in again and grabbed the phone. Why did he put his phone and wallet there anyways? Shoving that thought aside, he moved his thumb to the phone to pull up... shit.

His phone wasn't turned on.

Zed cursed, thumbed the power button and continued sprinting, alternating between watching where he was going and the status of the phone. Come on, come on, come on, he silently urged it.

What? What do you mean 'No Signal Detected?' Zed wanted to scream. Without any other option, he kept running down the block. And another. And—

_Finally_! He pulled up his phone list, started scrolling down, cursed when he realized the number he wanted was on speed dial, accidentally hit the wrong number dialing—what with his shaking hands, jerking movements while running and efforts to navigate his way to the van. He cancelled the call and tried again, only to get the exact same result. Cursing, he focused on the phone, deliberating pressing the right keys. He was about to hit 'Send'...

...when he ran right into a lamppost.

* * *

Zoiks walked back into the room, phone in hand, frown still on his face.

"Well?" Zound asked.

"Nothing," Zoiks replied.

"Is the phone on?" Zowie suggested.

"It's was."

"What do you mean, 'it was?'" Zound said, turning his head away from the fight scene between Obi-Wan and Jango Fett on Kamino, which had just started.

"I got one ring out of it before the signal got cut off," Zoiks told him. "When I tried again, I got an automated message saying that the person I was trying to call 'was unavailable or out of the service area.'"

Zowie jerked her head around. "Say what?"

"You heard me."

"This isn't good," Zound fretted.

"No kidding." Zowie bit her lip. "What if he got lost?"

"Or mugged?" Zound added.

"Or run over?"

"Or kidnapped?"

"Or—" 

"Oh for the love of—will you guys stop it?" Zooks demanded.

If looks could kill, the glare Zowie delivered at him could have struck him dead on the spot. "Zed hasn't come back yet. His phone's not working or turned off or worse. And he knew damn well that Episode II was on tonight," she hissed through gritted teeth.

"Which is a guarantee that he'll be back," Zooks pointed out. "Soon."

"And if he isn't?"

Zooks rolled his eyes. "Then we go out and look for him instead of wasting time here sitting on our asses and freaking out."

"That would be the best plan under the circumstances," Zoiks agreed.

"Right," Zound nodded. "Zowie, Zooks and I will head out if Zed doesn't come back by the next commercial break. Zoiks, stay here and man the fort in case he returns while we're out."

"Hey, why can't I stay here?" Zooks protested.

"'Cuz you'll spend the time staring at Padme's midriff instead of watching the door," Zowie snapped.

Zooks opened his mouth. Closed it. Considered it. Shrugged in agreement.

* * *

There was this odd ringing. Well, ringing wasn't quite right. It was more like vibrating, come to think of it. And it was coming all around... wait. No, that wasn't right either. It was coming inside him. Inside his head, to be exact.

Groaning, Zed opened his eyes, only to close them immediately as a bright light stabbed through.

"Um, Zed? You okay?"

Zed tried to open his eyes again. The light wasn't so bad this time. Squinting, he made out a woman crouching above him.

A purple woman crouching above him.

Shit.

"What happened?" he winced, slowly shifting to a sitting position.

Catwoman looked at him, looked behind her, and looked back at him. It was pretty much certain that Zed knew where Scarecrow's Joker lair was located. Unfortunately, Zed wasn't in the best shape right now. So she'd have to keep it simple.

"Zed ran from Rogue. Zed met lamppost. Lamppost won."

Zed just looked at her. For a moment, she thought she'd have to dumb it down even more. To her relief, he asked another question. "Where's my phone?"

She pointed at the road. Zed followed his gaze and groaned again when he saw a pile of circuitry, metal and plastic scattered across the asphalt. "It kinda slipped from your hand when you hit the lamppost and shattered when it hit the road," she explained. "And then a truck drove over it."

"Why does this always happen to me?" Zed moaned. "I just wanted to go home, where it's air-conditioned and watch some Star Wars. Okay, it's the prequel trilogy, not the original. But it's better than this."

She'd have to take his word for it, Catwoman decided.

"But no, I have to get a self-inflicted concussion and have my phone become road chow," Zed continued. "All because I ran into—and what do you want, anyways," he interrupted his monologue, staring at her in confusion.

"To find Scarecrow,"

"Huh?"

"So I can find Joker."

"Wait, I thought you just said 'Scarecrow.'"

"I did."

"And then you said 'Joker.'"

"Yeah."

"So which one is it?"

"Both."

"Huh?"

Catwoman was starting to think that concussion was more serious than she'd thought. Either that, or he was just exhibiting the usual handicap that afflicts all men. She frowned, realizing that that sounded an awful lot like one self-obsessed, narcissistic green-not-alabaster-skinned prima donna. Clearly, this whole Joker-taking-Rogue-theme-for-joyride thing was starting to get to her.

Zed's eyes widened slightly. She was frowning. Was it him? Something he said? Maybe he'd pissed her off. Oh God.

"Joker's running around stealing other Rogues's themes," Catwoman said, coming back to the reason for her impromptu stop. No reason to give him the crimefighting do-gooder reason like some damn White Hat, but a variant on the truth would suffice. "It's starting to piss me off. It's _already _pissed everyone else off. So I want to find out where they are so I can go and chastise them. Which brings me to you."

"Me."

"You."

"You want me to break client confidentiality?"

Good, it looked like he was recovering. "Yep," she confirmed.

"And tell you where Scarecrow's lair is?"

"Uh huh."

"So you can 'chastise' them."

"You got it." To illustrate her point, she lifted her hand up and showed him her claws.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, OH GOD! You're gonna do it. You're really gonna do it! Last time you didn't. You just cracked your whip and flashed your claws and said you'd do all sorts of horrible things if I didn't do what you said. Like flay my skin off, one layer at a time. Or turn me into a scratching post! Or..."

Catwoman just stared at Zed. It was like a dam had broken inside his head, with the result that he was madly babbling away about all the horrible things she supposedly threatened to do to him. Many of which she never actually said.

Maybe, given their past history, showing him her claws wasn't the best course of action.

* * *

"Okay, that's it," Zowie said jumping to her feet and turning off the TV. "Zed isn't back yet. Time to go find him."

"Zoiks, can you plot the most likely route Zed would have taken—"

"Done," Zoiks interrupted, handing over printouts. Zooks lunged out, grabbed them all and immediately sat down at a nearby table. He rummaged around until he found a pen and started circling various spots on each printout.

"What are you—good idea," Zound nodded when he saw what his partner was doing.

"Someone wanna fill me in here?" Zowie asked in confusion.

"There's a slim chance that Zed couldn't last until he got back and decided to grab a bite to eat," Zound explained.

"These are all the places where he might've gone," Zooks added, "from fast food joints to restaurants."

"I'll take the car and go straight to the hideout," Zound decided. "Zooks, Zowie; I want you two to walk to the hideout, taking the route Zoiks outlined for us. Go on either side of the street so you can scan the sidewalks and check out all the possible dining venues. Zoiks will stay here and hold down the fort."

"I'll hack into the traffic camera feeds and listen to the police band as well," Zoiks agreed. "That might narrow things down a bit."

"Okay, we all have our assignments," Zound said.

"Let's bring our man home."

* * *

"...beat me to an inch of my life, then dump me off at Gotham General. Probably have to go for my ID, 'cuz they sure wouldn't be able to recognize me after you're done with me. Oh God: I do have my wallet, right? Is my ID in there? Driver's license? Anything?"

He was still at it, Catwoman marvelled. Must've been at least ten minutes of nonstop constant babble.

"...probably need major surgery after you're through with me. Especially if you call over some of your fellow Rogues for a party, with me as the piñata of honor. Step right up, take a swing. Two points if you whack his limbs, five points if you hit his head, ten points if you smash his nuts..."

Bruce would know what to do, she thought. He'd probably have several protocols just for this situation.

"Cats! Catwoman: cats. Cats: Catwoman. You've got cats. Big cats. _Huge _cats. At that sanctuary place. Oh man. Why couldn't I be an overweight, artery-clogging waddling mass? You could turn me into kitty chow, couldn't you? You'd dice me up and feed me to your cats if I didn't spill the beans, wouldn't you?

All planned out with contingencies and permutations, filed away in nice little folders in his head and on the Batcomputer.

"...or probably turn me into chopped liver. Or take _out _my liver and cook it. Or slow-cook it. Or pan-fry it. Like that Lecter guy in Silence of the Lambs, 'with fava beans and a nice Chianti.'"

But she wasn't Bruce. She wasn't Batman. So she'd have to humor and handle Zed in her own way.

"Zed," she tried. Nope, he was still in his own little world, generating scenarios depicting all the horrible things she would supposedly do to him if he didn't tell her what she wanted to know.

Catwoman grabbed his shoulders and looked him in the eye. "Zed," she repeated firmly, but softly.

That did it. He abruptly stopped and looked at her.

"Joker's out there, ripping off every other Rogue's theme. Sooner or later, he's going to go too far. Or someone will decide enough's enough and try to take him down. Either way, it's a safe bet that people will be hurt. Or killed.

"Normally I wouldn't go out of my way to stop a fellow Rogue. I've got rules about that sort of thing. But Joker sends those rules out the window. I'm not laughing. No one's laughing. And it's time that the clown learns that. You get me?"

She received a silent nod.

"Now, word is that he's hiding with Scarecrow. At the lair you guys built for him. Find Scarecrow; find Joker; send him back to Arkham in a nice neat package. Well, maybe not so neat, but you get the idea. So, you're going to tell me where to find him."

...

...

...

"Please."

A word that you'd rarely, if ever, hear from the Bat crowd. Or the Rogue crowd. And it worked—probably _because _you'd rarely, if ever, hear it from the Bat or Rogue crowd. Zed told her the location. She waited long enough for one of the other Z's to show up before getting back in her Reventón and drive off.

Time to catch up with Bruce at the Iceberg. Hopefully he hadn't beaten poor Eddie to a pulp yet.


	5. All Your Lair Are Belong to Us

Don't Fear the Z

**Chapter 5: All Your Lair Are Belong to Us**

_Gotham Post, August 25__th_

_THERE'S A NEW SHERIFF IN TOWN—JOKER FOILED BY FELLOW ROGUES!_

_After holding Gotham hostage with his insane shenanigans, the master criminal and psychopath Joker has finally been apprehended. In a surprising twist, the culprits responsible for taking down the infamous mass murderer were not Gotham's Finest, nor the masked vigilante known as the Batman, but a conglomerate of 'Rogues.'_

_Calling themselves the 'Injustice Force of the Western Hemisphere,' this group of ne'er-do-wells—whose roster includes the Catwoman, Riddler, Penguin and Poison Ivy—stormed the Wayne Animal Sanctuary, where Joker had taken billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne and several Wayne Foundation board members hostage. After an intense firefight involving AK-47s, lightsabers and Sinestro's power ring, the self-styled Clown Prince of Crime was taken into custody and returned to the Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. _

_The fledgling criminal syndicate is currently being sued by the Injustice League and the Injustice Society for copyright infringement. Spokesperson Waylon 'Killer Croc' Jones was unavailable for comment. _

Zound rolled his eyes and threw the rag down on the table, regretting that the subscription to the Gotham Times wouldn't kick in until next month. Hard to imagine that he'd spent the past several months subsisting on the Post, CNN, Fox News and whatever news stories he could find on the Internet. So much time had passed. Thankfully, Joker and Scarecrow had been captured and everything was back to normal—relatively speaking—which meant the Zs could move back to their usual hideout and get back to business.

Speaking of which, Zound glanced at the table, where a fellow Z was nervously gulping down some chow mein. To say Zed had been traumatized by his second encounter with Catwoman would be an understatement. It had been a month since the Incident. Zed was now capable of leaving his room for more than a couple minutes without running back, diving under the blanket and assuming the fetal position. He had stopped staring into space and muttering "The claws... the claws..." And he had gradually divulged, in fits and bursts, what had happened during that fateful evening. Still, he wasn't quite himself yet.

Which made it quite surprising when word came through the grapevine about who their first client was.

* * *

"I wasn't expecting you of all people to hire us for a job," Zound admitted.

"Life is just full of surprises, isn't it?" Catwoman replied.

The meeting had been set at the Iceberg Lounge. Catwoman was already there when Zound arrived, finishing off a conversation with Jervis Tetch. Zound's Hatter-to-English translation skills were a little rusty, but he got enough to understand that Edward Nygma seemed to be experiencing a round of bad luck. Bad luck meant no successful heists, which meant a lean pocketbook. Zound mentally scratched him off the list of likely clients for the immediate future.

After a few minutes, Tetch left. Zound sat down at Catwoman's invitation and ordered a beer. They suffered through the obligatory chit-chat about the weather, the state of the economy, the weather, the latest gossip according to Tetch, the weather again and how nice it was to have Joker back behind bars.

Eventually Zound got tired of beating around the bush. "So what do you want?" he asked.

"How's Zed doing?" she asked instead.

"Reveling in all the luck he has when it comes to meeting clients," Zound replied coolly. "Like the first time. That was with Joker. Best we can figure, it ended up with Zed tied to a chair, watching a loop of Miley Cyrus and Paris Hilton music videos ad nauseum."

Catwoman winced.

"Second time was our first encounter with Scarecrow's habit of dosing us with the same toxin he uses as 'henchmen insurance.' It kicked in when Batman dropped by and scared the crap out of us. Naturally his antidote didn't work on Zed. He'd won the genetic lottery, apparently. It took two days before he got it out of his system. Thankfully he stopped screaming after the first hour. Mainly because he'd damaged his throat from screaming himself hoarse."

Catwoman winced again.

"And the last two times were encounters with you. Both of which scared the crap out of him." Zound leaned forward. "I'd say you should see how bad it is, but that would destroy any progress he's made so far. You've really messed him up. As far as I'm concerned, you mess with one of us, you mess with all of us."

"Look—"

"On a more professional note, this is the second time you finagled information on our business dealings. If we had any other rules on how we do things, _that_ would be it. And you broke it. Twice."

"Well—"

"I'm willing to let the first time slide. It was ages ago, and I'm willing to say the statute of limitations on that has passed by now. I am reasonable, after all."

"I'm glad—"

"And the second time did involve Joker, who was acting crazier than usual," Zound continued without pausing. "If that's even possible. His antics were scaring potential clients into hiding, which was bad for business. "

"That's—"

Zound still hadn't finished. "But that's not enough to wipe the slate clean. You broke our rule. Twice. That stops now. No more sweet-talking, scaring, or pummeling _any _information related to our business. From _any _of us. Understood?"

Enough was enough, Catwoman decided. She could concede that Zound had a legitimate reason for his grievance. And she certainly didn't want to traumatize anyone, even if it was unintentional. But letting someone just sit there and dictate what she was expected to do? She wouldn't let Batman get away with that, let alone one of the Zs.

"I never intended to cause Zed so much grief," she said at last. "Which is why I wanted to call this meeting." She slipped over a package wrapped in shiny wrapping paper. Not purple, Zound noted. "To give you this."

"Which is?" he asked.

"Something that Jervis was sure you guys would enjoy. Specifically Zed. Which is the main point, since this is kind of a gesture of apology."

Zound was silent for a moment. "This is probably the moment where I discover that my foot's in my mouth."

"Probably," Catwoman agreed.

"Well, on Zed's behalf, thank you for the peace offering. Whatever it is."

"You're welcome."

"Regardless, you understand that everything I said about not extracting information on us still stands?"

"Just as long as you understand that cats don't take kindly to orders," Catwoman smiled. "Or threats."

To his credit, Zound didn't pull the whole 'that's a statement, not a threat' crap. He just gave a small smile of his own. "Just consider that we routinely add 'extra expenses' to our clients' bills for the sheer fun of it. Sometimes it's even an afterthought."

"And your point is?" Catwoman prompted.

"Do you really want to find out what we could do if we got pissed enough to put our minds to it?"

"That almost sounds like a challenge," she purred. "Shame I've got other fish to play with... for now."

Zound smiled again, said his goodbyes and left. Catwoman finished her martini and left soon after. She sauntered out of the Iceberg, her hips automatically swaying in a hypnotic beat, as if nothing had happened. She walked half a block down to where she'd parked her 'Catmobile.'

A Catmobile which had developed a curiously regular pattern of bumps in the last hour.

As she got closer, Catwoman saw those bumps were chocolate. Someone had partially melted a bunch of chocolates on the hood of her car, just enough so it adhered to the metal. A bunch of chocolates that spelled the words 'Strike 2,' though the number looked more like a 'Z.'

Message received and understood.

Out of curiosity, she scraped some of the chocolate with one of her claws and tasted it. Hazelnut chocolate truffle. Yummy.

Life is just full of surprises, isn't it?

* * *

"For me?"

"That's what she said," Zound confirmed.

"For me?"

"Probably why she didn't bother wrapping it in anything with cats," Zowie guessed. "Or purple. She didn't want to cause you any more grief."

"For me?"

"For god's sake, open the damn thing already!" Zooks demanded.

Zed complied. His eyes bulged. The other Zs ran over to look.

"Starcraft II: Wings of Liberty," Zound read.

"_Collector's _Edition," Zed added.

Zoiks scratched his head. "You know, I was planning on getting that game for us. Even worked out a hack so we could play it over a LAN network."

"Awesome!" Zed said, grinning for the first time in weeks. "Anyone up for some PvP?"

"Huh?" Zooks asked blankly.

"'Player-versus-Player,'" Zowie interpreted. "Sure, I'm in."

"You sure?" Zound whispered to her. "Zed's the Starcraft champ amongst our crew, remember? And from what I hear, the game mechanics in Starcraft II are pretty damn similar."

"Zed needs a good time," Zowie replied. "Besides, how bad could it be?"

* * *

Fifty-two minutes and four games later, Zowie regretted those words.

She'd kept up to date on Starcraft II ever since Blizzard Entertainment announced it in Seoul. She'd drooled over the gorgeous cinematic trailers—partly because of the graphics, partly because the guy had some impressive muscles. She'd devoured every rumor, teaser, tidbit and gameplay video just like everyone else.

Apparently that wasn't enough.

Enough was enough, she vowed. She'd lost the last three games, but this time would be different. This time, her army had made it all the way to Zed's base. This time, her army was strong enough to crush Zed's defending forces and start dismantling the bunkers protecting his base, bit by bit. Seventy-eight Marines, twenty-two Marauders and seven Siege Tanks to lay one hell of a smack down on anyone who tried to mess with her. Five Medivac shuttles to heal any organic units who took some damage. And a pair of Battlecruisers, just for kicks.

Zowie watched in satisfaction as some of Zed's forces showed up—no doubt called back from an attack of their own when she started her onslaught. They attacked from the rear, trying to distract or split her army's focus. Silly Zed—she'd taken that possibility into consideration when she built her forces. She was ready for that. She was ready for anything he could throw at her.

"Nuclear launch detected."

Except for that.

Giving a silent thanks for the game's automatic warning systems, she immediately panned the screen over to her base and started scanning for the little red laser dot that marked ground zero. Nothing. She moved over to her secondary base. Still nothing. So where was Zed's little nuke going, exactly.

Zowie's stomach dropped as she suddenly figured out the answer. Moving back to her forces, she saw how her army was effectively pinned between Zed's bunkers up front and his cannon fodder in the rear. Just before not one, not two, but _three _nuclear missiles dropped down and vaporized it in a trio of ersatz mushroom clouds.

"Base is under attack."

Crap.

"Nuclear launch detected."

Double crap.

It took a second for Zowie to assess the situation. A dozen Reapers, easily identified by their jet packs, had merrily bypassed the defences of her primary base and were demolishing her infrastructure, building by building. And her secondary base? Already demolished, thanks to Zed's newfound obsession with blowing stuff up.

Swearing again, she typed 'GG' to Zed and logged off.

"'GG?'" Zooks asked as she stood up.

"'Good game,'" she replied, somewhat testily. "Come on, you must know this stuff. Didn't you wonder what I was saying whenever we played Call of Duty?"

"That was you?" Zooks asked blankly. "I thought it was the game."

Zowie rolled her eyes.

"So I was thinking we could go out for dinner," Zound said, glancing at Zed. "Applebees, Olive Garden..."

"Actually, there's this pub a few blocks north of here," Zooks mused, relieved to talk about something other than gamer lingo. "Burgers aren't half bad, but the beer's great. Don't go for the steaks, though—they're always too tough. If we hurry, we can beat the dinner rush."

Zed's face lit up. "Burgers and beer sound good."

"Well then," Zoiks said, clearly as relieved as everyone else to see the old Zed back. "We'd better get going."

As the Zs started to get up one by one to leave the room, Zound caught Zowie's eye. Getting the hint, she lingered behind.

"You know when I was delayed setting up Crane's Joker lair because I had to dodge Penguin?" Zound started.

"Yeah," Zowie nodded. "You were a bit vague on the details, as I recall."

"Long story."

"Give me the Cliff Notes version."

Zound complied. Zowie managed to keep a straight face. Barely.

"So how did you get away?" she asked curiously, after she managed to stifle her laughter. "Did you buy something?"

"No," Zound shook his head. "But I did get a 50% off coupon." He held it out to her.

Zowie raised her eyebrows. "For me?"

"It's either that, or buy something with it and charge the full price to our next client," he shrugged.

The two looked at each other for a second. Two. Three.

Then Zowie swiped it and stuffed it in her jeans. "If you ever ask to see what I got, I'll tell the others what you suffered through," she warned.

"Lips sealed," Zound said solemnly.

"Hey!" Zooks called out from the garage. "You guys coming or what?"

"Yeah, just hang on," Zound called back. "We'd better go," he told Zowie.

"Right."

The two of them headed out. "So you were thinking that some Rogue might wanna buy some lingerie for their lair?" Zowie asked casually. "Theoretically, of course."

"Exactly," Zound replied. "Theoretically."

"So should we start putting out feelers and see if Professor Strange is in the market for a lair?"

"For the love of God, don't go there. Please."

"But he could get some slinky outfits for his mannequin."

"What part of 'Don't go there' do you not understand?"


End file.
